


A variation of sleep

by Mariquita



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Human Castiel, I'm Sorry, M/M, Marathon Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 10:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14974907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mariquita/pseuds/Mariquita
Summary: "Earlier, Cas had taken a gulab jamun in his mouth, and he had closed his eyes and moaned like it was the best thing he had ever tasted in the world."Or, Dean and Cas order takeout and fail to watch the evening news among other things.





	A variation of sleep

 

In a moment of respite, it crosses your mind whether this is normal at all, whether you haven’t somehow stumbled into a witch’s territory sometime last week and that this in fact is just a spell. Because Cas is looking completely and utterly debauched beside you, his breathing steady now and not anymore like he’s dying.

When he lost his grace and you told him you’d guide him in his new life, this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind. _Exactly_ , being the operative word. Because in your daydreams you saw walks in the park, movie nights, driving down the nearest diner for coffee and pie, and occasionally—just occasionally, maybe once every night—having a roll in the hay. A perfectly healthy and normal relationship, so to speak, now that Cas, former angel of the Lord, had all the components of a regular human being including a libido and the ability to more or less pick up social cues.

It wasn’t, however, in your dirtiest daydreams that said former angel of the Lord was willing to do anything and everything between the sheets. And do them with unrestrained curiosity and confidence, with zero-fucks given whether you take him apart on the table mid-dinner while the TV is on the 6 o’clock news, or against the wall where you’re sure the neighbors can hear you, or on the floor where the carpet leaves burn marks on his skin.

You slowly realize that hooking-up with a former celestial being just maybe isn’t normal after all.

You sit up, your muscles protesting, and reach for the water bottle you have on the night stand. A marathon, is what this is, a kinky marathon you may have had once in your dream, you think, as water eases down your throat and you catch the digital clock blinking 3-fucking-thirty AM.

So.

You’ve been going at it for hours.

The TV had gone static a few hours ago and it fills the room now replacing the sounds of your moans and Cas’s breathy cries. The table at the far edge of room is uneven and there’s a box of Indian takeout on the floor—some samosas and buttered chicken. You make a note to fix that later if you still have the strength.

Earlier, Cas had taken a gulab jamun in his mouth, and he had closed his eyes and moaned like it was the best thing he had ever tasted in the world. And you still don’t really know how or why or what happened in between those moments but Cas was soon kneeling down by the dining table with your dick in his mouth instead, taking you apart so proficiently.

Something hot and heavy pools in your gut with the image of Cas full of you brandished in your mind, and you think, _fuck, not again._

Cas sits up slowly beside you, like it’s taking all of his energy to do this simple task, and you try your best not to stare at the glistening wetness on his chest he hasn’t even bothered to wipe down. Then he takes the bottle from your hand in a gesture so entirely mundane and yet so intimate that it kind of shakes you to the core.

“Thirsty, are we?” you say instead, on the side of suggestively because you’re an asshole and you watch as he downs the rest of the water.

For a brief moment of crazy you wish that you are the water traveling down his throat and through his viscera, this once-angel whom you have fucked at least thrice now today, each time with him giving you permission to come inside him. You’re thinking this, and you realise how fucked you are in more ways than one.

He notices you staring and he looks down at the mess that is himself and he moves probably to pick up a discarded shirt on the floor. But your hands are on him even before realizing what your hands are doing.

“Leave it, you’re gonna get dirty anyway,” you say and you’re pinning him into the ruined sheets, and you’re moving over him, shifting your legs around to straddle him.

“Is this too soon?” you ask him while leaning over and licking the hollow of his throat. When he doesn’t answer immediately, you lift yourself on your elbows and look at him. “No,” he says finally, steadily with eyes boring a hole inside you and it frustrates you how calm he is. How still angel-like after everything. So you crawl over him until your crotch lines up with his jaw, and you say “Open your mouth” in a low voice and he does just that and you’re slipping inside, just a few slow thrusts, you tell yourself, with no real purpose other than to slick yourself up. But of course, you lose all control and you go at it until he chokes.

Can’t be natural, you’re still thinking, when you finally lift his knees and prop them against your shoulders and you enter him in what you believe is the fourth time today, his hole still slick with your come and so, so warm it feels like coming home. You let out a lungful you don't even know you are holding and your eyes travel past his chest still wet, down his navel, down to his flushed cock that is only half-rigid, and finally to the place where you’re buried. When it isn’t enough to convince you that it's you who is actually inside him, you pull all the way out, the cool air of the motel room catching you in an electric shock. Cas lies still beneath you mouth ajar and red-ruined, and you say “fuck” under your breath once again because you know you will be jacking off to this image until the end of days. You guide yourself once more and watch as you sink in inch by inch, and you disappear inside him, and you think, yes, you are merged and you are chained and you are part of him if only momentarily like the water he drank earlier that maybe now is inhabiting his veins.

Once rooted deep, you never want to leave  _never want to leave_ this space.

So you say, while you bury your face in the crook of his neck, “Cas, I wanna live inside you.” Or, rather, the words leave your body unbidden. And Cas doesn’t say anything, just places his hand on your left shoulder where he left a mark so long ago, where now there is only a discoloration, like a birthmark or a fading scar the shape of a flower. He pulled you out of hell, this you will always remember. In return, you drag your mouth from his neck across his jaw and fit your mouth in his while you drag yourself almost all the way out of him again slowly and sink back again in that heat, your mouth still clamped to his lips. Soon, you fall into a solid rhythm, one that strays dangerously close to brutal, one that bends his neck awkward because you're thrusting in him too hard that it pushes him against the headboard and you have to drag him down every once in a while so that he doesn't take a concussion. You think that maybe Cas will break this time, tell you to stop, that it's too much. But Cas underneath you doesn’t say a word, instead he just lets out barely-there breaths each time you go too deep.

It hits you like a bat when you come, buried to the hilt. It hits you so suddenly that you forget to ask if it's OK, if this is OK, you filling him up again. Briefly, you think whether it even matters to him that you've completely ruined him. Then you’re coming down from that high, and belatedly, you sneak a hand in between your bodies, reaching out for him when you realize that he isn’t even hard anymore to begin with.

“Shit, Cas, I’m sorry,” you say, feeling like a total jerk and moving to slip out of him, but then he wraps his legs around you so viciously. You stay moored, unbelievably.

“It’s OK, Dean” you hear him say and he is so warm when he kisses you and slips a tongue in your mouth. Somewhere along the inner side of his teeth you taste something sweet. Fucking gulab jamuns, you think, numbly and maybe you’re just about ready to fall asleep or you’re already asleep and this is a dream when you hear him say, "Just take anything you want.”

 

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**Author's Note:**

> I apologize. I changed the title. Also, title is from Margaret Atwood's poem. I own nothing.


End file.
